


King and Butler

by PrinceSircastic



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Mild Smut, post-BotFA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-25 01:06:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3790873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrinceSircastic/pseuds/PrinceSircastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sky is dark when Thranduil returns from the battlefield, and his heart is heavy - but there is someone waiting for him he does not expect, and is all the more grateful for seeing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	King and Butler

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Adalas.
> 
> *Galion is written based on my version of him, since he was given such poor screen time in the film.

The sky was dark when Thranduil returned to the corner of Dale he had marked off as his own for the duration of the dealings with Erebor, the remaining Elves of his army preparing themselves for the journey back to their forest home. All had noticed that their king's mood was as dark as the sky, and none needed to question it, for they all took note of the absence of their beloved prince. Many of them were mourning, too, for those they had lost in the battle, as they would mourn for many years yet. 

Feren accompanied his king to his tent, awaiting any command he should give, ready to call the order for the army to march home, but Thranduil did not speak a word. He stepped through into the tent, intent on fetching a glass of wine to soothe his shaken nerves, but stopped short when his eyes fell upon the tall figure standing at the table, as though waiting for him. Thranduil said nothing for a moment, eyes taking in the black-robed Elf who slowly, steadily poured wine into a goblet. 

"Feren. Leave us." The dutiful Elf gave a nod, and ducked out of the tent in a hurry. He knew that tone in his king's voice, and wanted to be far from his side when his anger finally broke the surface. "You are not supposed to be here, Galion." The Elf lifted his head, one hand extending to hold out the goblet of wine, but Thranduil made no move to take it. Sharp green met icy blue as Galion held the king's gaze, and he slowly placed the goblet onto the table, within his reach. 

"Am I not?" He blinked, a deliberate action, head tilting to the side as he studied his king. Oh, yes. There was anger there, bubbling beneath the surface. Thranduil had not moved from the opening of the tent, blood still staining his cheek, his hair, splashed across the armour he had not yet removed. 

"I commanded you to stay within the walls of the kingdom." Eyes followed Galion as the tall Elf circled around the table, and crossed to him. "You were not to come near the battle." He pulled back a little – no steps were taken, but he stretched back away from the other Elf, a sign that would usually be understood to mean he wanted to keep space between them. This time, however, Galion ignored it. Well-groomed hands lifted to the fastening of the king's cloak, and when Thranduil made no further move to pull away from him, he unfastened the clasp and slipped the cloak from his shoulders, carefully folding it up to place upon the table. 

"And I did not." He murmured, turning his back to him for a moment. "The battle was over by the time I arrived." He had walked through the streets of Dale, seen the fallen bodies of Men and Elves alike. The dead were being seen to, of course – anyone able was helping to move their fallen kin away from the scenes of battle, to be respected and mourned by families. He had seen Elves he knew well amongst the bodies, and it had filled him with a fear he had not felt since last he stood, sword in hand, in armour too light to be of much use, before an army of foul creatures doing the work of a sinister evil. He had lost his father that day, and his king also, and he had feared he would face the same loss again here. 

"You should not have come. It was not your place." Galion's hands balled into fists, only for a moment, before he forced them to relax. He drew in a slow breath, and put on an easy smile for his king as he turned back to him. 

"My place is with my king." He moved to him again, fingers this time reaching for the clasps of his armour. "Did you honestly think I would not come?" Thranduil did not speak as Galion removed each individual piece of armour, trying to keep his temper under control. Galion was not supposed to be here. Galion was supposed to be safe inside his kingdom, away from the danger of battle, away from the risk of death. It had been torment enough to know his son was out there, in the thick of war. He had ordered Galion to stay behind to save himself further worry, and now he was _here_. 

"I expected you to obey the commands of your king." Galion turned from him again, crossing instead to another table, where sat a bowl of water and a cloth. With slow, careful movements, he soaked the cloth with the water, and twisted it to wring out most of the moisture. 

"And I would have," he began, turning back to face him, "if the command had come from my king." With three long strides, he was standing before the king, and he lifted the cloth to gently wipe the blood from his cheek. "And not from _mell nin_." All temper washed away at the softer tone of the Butler's voice, at his tender touch. Thranduil let out a shaky breath, eyes slipping closed as he pressed his cheek firmer against Galion's hand, leaning into his touch. "I should have been at your side." 

"I could not risk losing you." Gone was the voice of the king, replaced now with the voice of the Elf who loved too fiercely, and who had lost too much. The cloth was set aside as Galion took his king into his arms, feeling the weight of the other's body as he collapsed into him, the weight of war and grief finally becoming too much for him. Long fingers stroked soothingly through pale hair, eased the circlet from his head to lay it aside with the armour. He was not a king, now. He was just Thranduil Oropherion, his beloved. "He has gone, to the North." 

"He is a wild soul, _meleth nin_." Fingertips danced down over Thranduil's back, tracing his spine in a manner he knew would calm him, ground him, steady him. "He needs to discover himself, find his place in the world, as once you did. He will return to you when he is ready, and he will love you all the more for letting him go." He had known long ago that Legolas needed to stretch his wings and fly from the roost. The woodland kingdom his father had ruled for so long was too confining for one such as he, at least now, in these young years. 

"I would express a hope that you are right," Thranduil lifted his head, the faintest of smiles touching his lips, "but there is no need for it, as you are always right." Galion laughed now, and the sound lifted the heavy heart of the king. He brought both hands up to frame the sharp, narrow face, so elegant and beautiful in its construction, and simply gazed upon his ever loyal Butler. "I am glad you are here, Galion." With a fond smile, Galion leant down to touch his forehead to Thranduil's, lids closing over rich green eyes. 

"There is no other place I would be." He did not open his eyes, not even when unsteady hands lifted his chin, and Thranduil's face tilted away, warm breath ghosting over his lips before the space between them closed. He accepted his king's kiss eagerly, hands finding their place upon strong shoulders, allowing Thranduil to have complete control. There were times, in the dark hours of the night, when Thranduil would submit himself to him, to allow him to claim his very being – but this moment was the king's alone. He needed this, needed to have power over something when so much of it had been taken from him elsewhere. Galion knew him better than anyone else in this world, even knew him better than he knew himself. It was his job to know him, it was his duty. 

When Thranduil parted from him, he met his king's eyes, searching within them for what it was his king required of him. Thranduil looked, in this moment, not unlike the younger Elf who had come to him upon the eve of battle during the Last Alliance, fearing for what the morning would bring, and what would become of their people. He had comforted him then, as he had comforted him when they had returned home with only a third of their people, and his father's crown sat heavy upon his head – and so, he would comfort him now, with the memories of another terrible battle hanging over them both, and the grief of losing yet more of their kin weighing down their already troubled hearts. 

"My king." He breathed out, fingers gliding up a pale throat to twist into fine hair, just as lips brushed along his jaw and up to one pointed ear. Sparks of pleasure rippled through him as teeth grazed the sensitive point, and his head tipped to the side, asking for more. 

"Not now." Thranduil responded, voice soft and low, his hands already finding the clasps of the tunic of inky black that his Butler favoured, unhooking them with quick, expert movements. "I am not your king now, Galion." Fingertips brushed over the exposed skin beneath the open garment, felt muscles twitch beneath his touch. "I am merely your oldest friend, your companion." The tunic slipped from strong shoulders, pooled around black leather boots upon the floor. "Your beloved." Steadier hands gripped narrow hips, pulled Galion flush against him. "Your Thranduil." 

"My Thranduil." He repeated, meeting cool blue with warm green, lips curving into a smile. Thranduil mirrored it, the warmth touching his eyes, and he caught one of Galion's hands in his own, bringing it to his lips. "Come, _muin nin_ ," Galion stepped back, pulling Thranduil with him, moving towards the carved chair still draped with one of Thranduil's cloaks, "this night will be ours, and ours alone. Allow me to take care of you, as I have always done." 

No more words were spoken, for there was no need for them. Their lips met again in a kiss with more heat, more passion, than before, and whilst Thranduil's hands slid eagerly into hair of gold, Galion's made short work of the clasps of Thranduil's tunic. Unlike the cloak, the garment received no such delicate care – it was dropped to the ground to lie forgotten, as skilled hands traced the lines of Thranduil's back and shoulders, feeling the tension beneath the muscle. Well, he would make short work of that. 

Hands dropped to Thranduil's hips, and his mouth traced the sharp line of his jaw before he dipped lower, trailing hot kisses along the pale throat to the hard lines of his collarbone. Galion smirked against Thranduil's skin, twisting him sharply as he gently pushed him down into the waiting chair. He caught the flash of wild glee in Thranduil's eyes, and couldn't help but give a daring grin as he sank to his knees before him. Thranduil was a dominating presence, a figure of command and control, but Galion was privy to the knowledge that he enjoyed to be challenged, to be controlled. He craved the dominance that Galion could give him. 

Boots were removed, kicked aside, and Galion's clever fingers made short work of the breeches that were the king's last cover. He stood, taking in the sight of his beloved, pale skin and elegant lines, slender limbs that hid the powerful muscle beneath. Oh, yes, Thranduil was as much a treasure as the gems he craved, more beautiful even than starlight itself. He had believed so from the very moment he had first laid eyes upon the prince, and Thranduil had owned his heart from that day on. 

With Thranduil's eyes upon him, he dropped a hand to tug the lacings of his own breeches, loosening them at a teasingly slow pace. Thranduil's tongue darted out to wet his lips, gaze falling to Galion's hand, and then back up to his face. He adjusted his position in the chair as the breeches fell, eyes now travelling up the length of those long, long legs. He knew of how Galion perceived him – more beautiful than the stars, he said – but he believed he could never compare to the beauty of his Butler. Taller he stood, more slender in build, with hair the colour he imagined pure sunlight to be, and eyes that spoke of the rich forest Greenwood had once been, before the shadow claimed it. No, none could compare to Galion. 

Thranduil extended a hand to him, and their fingers laced together as Galion moved to sit astride him, leaning in to brush their lips together again. When their bodies joined alongside their lips, Thranduil allowed his mind to wander, allowed himself to get lost in the warmth and familiarity of Galion, to forget the troubles that haunted him even if only for these few quiet, secret moments. For now there was only Galion, there was only the love and devotion between them. All else faded to nothing, and mattered little. 

There was no sound but their own soft moans and gentle gasps, hisses of pleasure when sensitive skin was abused, or when teeth caught on pointed ears, murmurs of Sindarin exchanged in voices so low they were almost lost amongst all other sound. Hands stroked over heated skin, gripped tight to firm bodies, traced lines they had long ago memorised. Hearts raced as the pace quickened, the movements of their bodies against each other increasing with need, desperate to reach that peak together, to be one entirely. 

And when it was reached, it was Thranduil's name upon Galion's lips, and Galion's upon his. Arms snaked around Galion's back, pulled him forward until they were chest-to-chest, and lips were pressed to his in a slow, lazy kiss that said more than words ever could. Thranduil had never been one for words, not when speaking from his heart, and with every loss he bore it became more difficult for him to voice his feelings, but he made up for it in other ways. 

Like the emerald stag Galion wore around his neck, a gift from his king many name-days ago, or the gentle touches he gave when they were alone, or the fond smiles that were only for him. He knew his king's heart, and he needed no words to know he had a place within it. His king loved few, but he loved so fiercely that it was impossible to be blind to it. 

But as they dressed, as Galion clasped his tunic and smoothed out the creases from its time spent upon the floor, familiar hands brushed the hair from the back of his neck, and warm lips pressed to his skin. One arm curled around him, a hand coming to rest over his heart, and Galion leant back into the warm, firm chest of his king. 

" _Le hannon_." Thranduil murmured, nuzzling affectionately against Galion's neck. He smiled, lifting his hand to cover Thranduil's. 

" _Lle creoso._ " He turned in Thranduil's arms, tipped his face down to press a sweet kiss to his king's lips. " _Gi melin_ , Thranduil." He whispered against his lips, eyes remaining closed as he breathed out a sigh. With his eyes shut he missed the warm smile spread across Thranduil's face, the smile that lit up his face with pure delight. Hands once again framed Galion's face, Thranduil's nose rubbing lightly against his before he tipped his head up to press his lips to Galion's forehead. 

" _Gi melin_ , Galion." So rarely said, and always the more meaningful because of it. Galion did not even attempt to stop the grin from crossing his face, and with a surge of delight he leant in to steal another kiss from his king. They parted as footsteps approached, Thranduil reaching for the goblet of wine that had so far gone ignored, Galion taking a step back, hands clasping at his back. 

And just like that, they were King and Butler once more.

**Author's Note:**

> Sindarin translations:  
> Mell nin/muin nin ~ my beloved/dear  
> Meleth nin ~ my love  
> Le hannon ~ thank you  
> Lle creoso ~ you're welcome  
> Gi melin ~ I love you


End file.
